


Lucky Socks

by bauble



Series: Amuse-Bouche [9]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 02:46:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12003354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Arthur's best-laid plans go a bit awry.A coda to Amuse-Bouche. Set before the Epilogue.





	Lucky Socks

_ARTHUR_

"It has to be perfect," Arthur says for what must be the sixtieth time. He knows Una probably lost interest hours ago and is only pretending to listen at this point, but—well, it does. It has to be perfect.

"It will be," she replies, and to her credit, the words fall closer to the patient/soothing end of the spectrum rather than the annoyed/bored side. "You've been planning this for months. What could go wrong?"

"I don't believe in jinxes, but that is maybe the cruelest thing you've ever said to me." Arthur closes a suitcase.

"Just have Beth put on her lucky socks," Una says. "If socks can improve patient recovery rate after quadruple-bypass surgery, I'm sure they can also cancel out any fate-tempting words."

Arthur heaves a tremendous sigh even as, for a split-second, he seriously considers calling Beth. "I hate you."

"No you don't," Una says in a sing-song voice. "You love me. Almost as much as you looooooove Eam—"

"I'm hanging up now," Arthur says. "Do you hear me? This is the sound of me hanging up."

He hits the end button to kissy noises and Una's completely inaccurate impression of him saying, "Oh, baby, I love you more than cooking and food and Sonya Roy's third essay on the use of tarragon in béarnaise sauce—"

Arthur takes a deep breath and resists the urge to call Beth. Not just because it's currently 3AM in her time zone, but also because it is ridiculous to invoke clothing-based superstitions. He's fine. Everything's going to be fine.

* * * * *

 _EAMES_

When they arrive on the island, it's peaceful and absolutely stunning for all of an hour, most of which Eames spends kneeling by the toilet as the contents of his stomach flee his body. There is a window in the bathroom, however, and the view of the beach is lovely.

"Oh, baby," Arthur says as he hovers with a damp towel. "How are you feeling? Do you want to lie down?"

"I'm alright," Eames says, struggling to prop himself up along the marble counter. "But I should probably stay upright for a moment longer lest my insides rebel further."

This is the auspicious beginning to their long-anticipated holiday to the Caribbean: Eames has just finished the last leg of an international tour promoting his latest album, _Saving Me, Saving You_ , and apparently isn't quite over the stomach bug he picked up somewhere in Germany. Arthur's a bit ragged himself, guarding a CEO who's been making three trans-Atlantic flights per week for the past year.

As wonderful as performing for fans is, Eames is growing ever more acutely aware of the distance there is from the twenty-something he was when he first started gallivanting across the globe. In those tender years, he could drink, smoke, and do all manner of regrettable things to his body with no noticeable ill-effects the next day. 

Nowadays, however, all he wants to do at night is stare adoringly at Arthur across Skype and maybe read a good book. But even copious amounts of restful Arthur-watching and honey-spiced tea hadn't been enough to ward off this damnable illness.

The original plan had been to meet at Heathrow (Eames arriving on a flight from Munich, Arthur driving in from their flat with packed suitcases for both of them), fly to the Caribbean together, and begin a seven day holiday filled with sand, scuba diving, and fantastic sex. The latter two had disappeared into the ether as soon as the plane touched down and Eames sprinted for the airport toilets. Now even the sand portion seems threatened by the ominous storm clouds moving in across the horizon.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Arthur says. Through the window, they watch hotel employees scurry onto the beach to bring various equipment and furniture inside. Rain's already coming down, and the branches of the palm trees begin waving about in gusting winds. In seconds, the beautiful beach vista that was transforms into a desolate shooting location for a film about the end of the world.

Eames starts to respond, but ends up vomiting instead.

* * * * *

The rain lasts for three days, raging for some hours and drizzling sulkily for others. After the first night of abject misery, Eames' stomach grows amenable to solid food again, and on the second night, Arthur finally rejoins him on the bed (having spent the first night on the couch for fear of contracting illness or simply being caught between Eames and the loo).

There's no sex, which is somewhat disappointing given that Arthur's fitter than ever (Eames woke up from his feverish delirium from in time to catch Arthur moving about in a towel after a shower). Disappointing but understandable; when Arthur had last been ill, Eames was sympathetic but not exactly eager to be covered in runaway mucous.

On the third morning, Eames is at last fully recovered, even if the weather is not.

"Feeling better, I take it," Arthur murmurs sleepily as Eames lifts the covers and kisses his way down to Arthur's cock, which lies half-hard against Arthur's muscular thigh.

"Mm, hullo," Eames murmurs as he nuzzles his cheek against Arthur's cock. "I have missed you. Have you missed me, darling?"

Arthur smiles indulgently as he spreads his legs. Before Arthur, Eames hadn't dated any man long enough to fully investigate all the quirks and idiosyncrasies particular to each cock, nor to develop a deeply held affection for such. 

But Arthur's cock is so different from Eames' own, with no foreskin and a fascinating shape and the ability to make Eames feel utterly fantastic--how could he not grow attached? How could he not feel soothed at its thickness in his mouth, at the way Arthur's eyes droop to half-mast as he hums approvingly?

Arthur comes, and he tastes familiar, tinged with some flavors of the local food. When he pulls Eames up for a kiss, he says, "Sorry, morning breath."

"Preferable to nausea-breath, I wager," Eames replies while Arthur chuckles.

"Way to set the mood."

"Oh, it's been set for ages." Eames thrusts his cock against Arthur's hip. "I think the only thing that could unset it at this point would be a strong kick to the bollocks. Although who knows; it's been so long I might even find that erotic."

Arthur reaches down to wrap a hand around Eames' cock, firm and confident. "I've missed you, too," he says, but he's looking into Eames' eyes as he says it, calm and clear and wonderful.

Eames relaxes into the cradle of Arthur's embrace, his warm hand, while the spitting rain and unrelenting clouds melt away. When he comes, Arthur doesn't pull back to clean up--simply wraps a heavy arm around Eames and keeps him close until they doze off together. God, the strength and weight and undeniably masculine smell of Arthur—Eames nearly aches with how much he's missed this.

* * * * * 

They wake up a few hours later and take a rather enjoyable shower together before heading down to the indoor swimming pool. The heavens above are still nothing but murky rainclouds through the skylight, but Arthur packed Eames' favorite swimwear (Tangerine Tango never fails to lift his spirits) and Arthur is sporting a set of blue swim trunks that makes his pert arse look eminently bite-able. There are a few other people there but it's mostly quiet, and Eames savors the opportunity to spend time with Arthur without hordes of paparazzi descending.

Arthur does a few lengths while Eames splashes round aimlessly, no longer ill but not fully recovered yet. He eventually hauls himself out of the water to sit on the edge of the pool, feet dangling. Arthur swims over a few minutes later.

"I love that swimsuit on you," Arthur says as he presses a brief kiss to the side of Eames' knee.

"Because it's almost indecently tiny?" Eames asks, leaning forward.

"That, and I can pretty much see the shape of your cock through it," Arthur replies, grinning. "Do you remember the first time you wore that?"

"Oh yes," Eames replies as the memory of Arthur in a three-piece suit, luscious and solemn, comes back to him. "You were quite stoic, as I recall."

"I'm glad it came across that way on the outside," Arthur says, smiling wryly. "On the inside, all I could think about was getting my mouth on your dick."

"Why, Arthur." Eames blinks rapidly as the blood begins to rush about in his body; he suspects he's blushing. "That's—that's quite a thing to say."

Arthur laughs as he squeezes Eames' foot. "I love how shy you still get."

"Well, ah." Eames coughs and shifts, looking away with eyelashes lowered for maximum effect. "I should probably head back for a shower and a bite to eat before I turn into a prune. Or certain parts of my body undergo—other transformations."

Arthur gives Eames' big toe one last squeeze before pushing away from the side of the pool. "I'm gonna swim one more lap and give you a head start. Don't have too much fun without me."

"I'll try." Eames heaves himself up and turns. When he looks back over his shoulder, Arthur's sightline is trained squarely on his arse. "But if you leave me alone for too long, I can't say what I'll get up to."

Arthur's eyes widen as he begins splashing away. "Fastest lap ever," he says fervently. Eames laughs as he walks away.

* * * * * 

_ARTHUR_

"Are you alright, darling?"

Arthur glances away from the window distractedly. "Yeah, I'm fine, I'm just—" cursing the spectacularly shitty weather, "admiring the view."

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" Eames comes up behind Arthur and rests his chin on Arthur's shoulder. 

Arthur wishes he could allow himself to relax back into Eames' arms, close his eyes and take him to bed. But tonight's their last night in Jamaica and bad weather or no, Arthur's officially run out of time. "Let's go outside."

Eames stops nuzzling Arthur's neck. "What? Now?"

"Yeah, it's—we can go on a moonlit walk." Arthur squints at the sky; through the heavy rainclouds he can see a shimmer that might be the moon. Or a passing aircraft. "It'll be… romantic." Internally, he sighs; he can't even manage to say the word 'romantic' in a convincingly romantic manner.

"Well," Eames pauses. "I suppose it has stopped raining…"

"Yes," Arthur says, seizing on the opportunity with some relief. "Let's go. Now."

* * * * * 

_EAMES_

Perhaps the beginning of the trip hadn't been an auspicious one, but Eames couldn't ask for better company. And now that his health is much improved, even the weather can't put a damper on his spirits, metaphorically speaking. Literally speaking, he is quite damp.

"Arthur," Eames says as he trudges through the rain, unable to see very far in the grayish light lurking behind clouds overhead, "where are we going?"

"Towards the water," Arthur replies as he leads Eames onto chilly sand and towards the ocean, which is roiling with alarmingly large waves.

* * * * * 

_ARTHUR_

Arthur keeps a tight hold of Eames' hand as he leads them towards the spot he'd scouted out earlier. Of course, the markings are long gone by now, as are any recognizable landmarks. So eventually Arthur gives up on finding the magic spot and simply stops when the water is mostly visible through darkness and not lapping at their ankles.

"Hey, is that a boat?" Arthur asks, gesturing at a random point out over the ocean. Eames turns his head towards the horizon, gamely searching for a boat that may or may not exist, and Arthur shoves his hands into his pants pockets. 

In his haste to drag Eames outside, Arthur had neglected to put on the suit jacket he'd had specially tailored and made for this occasion. For a brief, panicky moment, he grasps at nothing in his pockets and he wonders if he'd dragged Eames all the way out here only to forget the second most important thing back in the hotel room.

But then his fingertips brush against the tell-tale texture of velvet and Arthur practically shudders with relief. That is, until he fumbles the box right out of his pocket and onto the ground.

"No," Arthur mutters as he drops to his knees and starts pawing at the sand. "No this can't—shit, shit, shit on a stick—"

"I think it is a boat," Eames says, sounding delighted. "The lights seem to be flashing Morse—Arthur?"

"One sec, baby," Arthur says, trying to keep the slightly hysterical edge out of his voice. The sand is cold and wet, the evening so dark it's impossible to see anything. "Gimme one sec."

"Did you drop something?"

"Hermit crab," Arthur says, and as far as the beginnings of lies go, it's a pretty pathetic one. "A hermit crab pinched me on the toe."

"Oh." It's obvious Eames doesn't know quite what to make of this. "Perhaps we should go inside? Take a look at that?"

"One minute," Arthur says as his scrabbling grows more frantic. He did not spend god knows how many months agonizing over the arrangements for this trip, the exact words he was going to say, and thousands of dollars only to lose it all on the goddamned beach.

Arthur's thumb brushes against the beveled edge of a velvet box and he nearly whoops in victory. As he grabs the box and readies himself, Eames sneezes three times in a row. "Arthur," Eames starts, sniffling, "perhaps we should…"

Abruptly, Arthur feels like the biggest asshole in the world. Romance is not letting your loved one shiver in the dark and descend back into illness while you dig around a beach. "Baby, I'm so sorry." Arthur stands and pockets the box, grabbing Eames' hand instead. "You're shivering. Let's go inside."

* * * * * 

_EAMES_

As they tromp back inside, Eames studies Arthur worriedly; it's not like him to be so secretive. "Is everything alright?"

"It's—" Arthur scrubs a hand across his face, then seems to realize that both are now covered in sand. "I was hoping for a moonlit walk on the beach and got early monsoon season instead."

Eames pulls Arthur into his arms, sand and wet and all. Arthur doesn't give a fig about romance, which means he was trying to engineer it for Eames. "Well, I love monsoon walks nearly as much as moonlit ones when I'm with you."

"Yeah, there's nothing quite like being rained on in a strange, dark beach," Arthur says dryly, but hugs back. "God, I'm sorry. I don't want you to get sick again."

"I'm not so delicate I'll melt under a light drizzle," Eames says, savoring Arthur's warmth, his scent.

Arthur hides his face in Eames' chest, mumbles something nonsensical that sounds like, "Could have used those socks." Arthur must be tired. 

Eames says, "Let's go to bed."

They clean up and strip, kissing sweetly until the kisses become not so sweet. When they make love, Arthur pushes gently into Eames, as if Eames were something fragile and precious.

"I won't break," Eames says as he strokes Arthur's cheeks, his jaw, his pinked ears.

"I know," Arthur whispers back, eyes serious, for once without a trace of laughter or humor. "But I might."

"Darling," Eames whispers, hooking his ankles behind Arthur's back and urging him onwards, wanting him to know that there's nothing to fear. 

"I love you so much," Arthur whispers after they're done, as if it were a secret, as if his every action did not tell Eames that without words.

"I know you do," Eames replies, snuggling as close as he can. "And I love you." The latter sentence is nowhere near enough to express the tenderness in his heart, to encapsulate the incredible joy Arthur has brought to his life in the past three years. "Thank you for this planning this trip. I've had such a marvelous time."

"Liar," Arthur says, smiling against Eames' temple.

"I have," Eames insists. "It's been beautiful here, even in the ill weather, and general illness."

"Fuck the socks. I'm the luckiest guy in the world," Arthur murmurs. Eames considers asking Arthur what the devil he's talking about, but really, his chest is surprisingly comfortable and they have had an eventful night. As his eyes slide shut, Eames supposes the question will keep till morning.

* * * * * 

_ARTHUR_

Arthur wakes to the sound of Eames' slightly wheezing breath. Eames has been congested all week, but it seems to be easing up at long last.

When Arthur slowly disengages from Eames and climbs off the bed, Eames makes a discontented snuffling noise and rolls backwards into the warm spot. The sun's beginning to rise behind the window shade and the light hits Eames' jaw, glancing off the stubble that's already growing in.

This is their last morning in Jamaica. Their flight out is this afternoon and all of Arthur's attempts to propose have failed in spectacular fashion. 

In a few hours, they'll be back to their normal (or as close an approximation of 'normal' as it gets) lives back in London. Eames has finished the last of his tour dates, which means he'll finally be at home, greeting Arthur after work with a foot massage and a kiss and a dozen new songs.

Arthur kisses the tip of Eames' stuffy nose and slips quietly out of the room.

* * * * * 

_EAMES_

Eames wakes up to the smell of waffles and jerk chicken.

"God, that smells heavenly," Eames says as he opens his eyes.

"Breakfast in bed?" Arthur offers. "Or would you like to sit on the balcony?"

"As tempting as the bed sounds, I think I've had enough of lying about this holiday," Eames says as he throws back the covers and stretches, preening as Arthur's gaze slides appreciatively over his body. Arthur is simply marvelous for his ego.

They migrate outside to wicker chairs on the balcony overlooking the water. It's a perfect day at long last: clear blue skies, sunny, not a stray cloud to be seen. Eames takes a deep inhale of the ocean air. "This was such a wonderful idea," Eames says. "Thank you."

"I'm glad—I'm glad you like it." There's something strange in the quality of Arthur's voice, an odd rasp, and Eames glances over curiously.

Which is when he notices the black velvet box lying next to his plate of waffles.

"I want to eat breakfast with you every day for the rest of my life." Arthur takes both of Eames' hands in his, gaze steady even as his voice trembles ever so slightly. "In Jamaica, in London, in—everywhere."

Eames blinks. He suspects that what's inside isn't a set of cufflinks, and the idea stuns him, takes his breath away. "Arthur."

"I—I had this long speech prepared." Arthur drops Eames' hands, fumbles the box open and can't seem to move beyond that, arms paralyzed in mid-air. "But I can't remember what I meant to say except that I love you so much, Eames, and—will you?"

"Oh, darling." Eames takes a deep breath as he stares at the ring, which is gold, channel set with a row of tiny diamonds, and utterly gorgeous. He remembers, suddenly, the conversation they'd had years ago; Arthur had flown out to visit him on tour and they'd spent a few short hours together in Eames' dressing room at the concert venue, just like when they'd first met.

Eames doesn't remember exactly what they'd been talking about when it came up, but he'd been seated in front of the mirror, relaxed and half in costume. 

"Do you think you could ever do it again?" Arthur asked while he massaged Eames' shoulders. He'd seemed so casual, in the moment, though in retrospect likely nothing was casual about it at all. "Get married, I mean?"

"I'd like to," Eames replied, head rolling back in bliss as Arthur hit a particularly stubborn knot. "I'm getting a bit old to be dating around."

"I hear gold-plated dentures are a real turn-on to hot young twinks these days," Arthur said, deadpan as always. "You've got options."

Eames laughed. "I look forward to mortifying my future children with old age and general lechery."

Arthur grinned as he dropped a kiss to the top of Eames' head. "Is that a thing you want? Children?"

"I've thought about it." Eames tipped his head back to receive Arthur's next kiss on the lips. "Two or three, perhaps."

Arthur's smile faltered ever so slightly. "Biological or adopted?"

"I'd assumed they'd be biologically related to me given my prior history with women, but I hadn't thought that much further ahead beyond that." Eames turned to face Arthur, then, smoothed the delicate furrow at the top of his brow with a thumb. "What do you want?"

"Always figured I'd adopt because of the whole—" Arthur shrugged a shoulder, "sex with men thing. And I think—there are already so many kids who could use a good home, you know?"

Before Arthur, dating men had been larks, short-term novelties amidst longer and more serious relationships with women. The sheer improbability of winding up with a man for a long-term commitment had rendered pondering the logistical details of children and marriage a seemingly pointless exercise. 

And yet—here Eames was, in the single happiest and most functional relationship he'd ever had in his entire life. It wasn't what he'd ever imagined for himself, but imagining a life without Arthur—

"To be honest, I haven't really thought about it all," Eames said. "But I want to. I want to talk it through."

And so they had: about adoption and surrogacy, about where they'd be raised and how, about what that would mean for their careers and work. About marriage and commitment and divorce. About building a life together.

Now, staring into Arthur's eyes, Eames feels the rush of excitement and trepidation give way to an overwhelming sense of calm. This is Arthur: beautiful, wonderful, loving, beloved Arthur. Eames' future husband. 

"Yes," Eames says, joy surging from the tips of his toes to the very ends of his hair. "Absolutely, Arthur, yes."

Arthur says nothing as he slides the ring onto Eames' finger—perfectly sized, Mal must have been in on this—and Eames looks up in time to catch Arthur rubbing roughly at his face, under his eye.

"Arthur," Eames whispers, sliding closer to thumb away another teardrop from Arthur's cheek in amazement. "Are you—"

"I'm okay." Arthur blinks rapidly, eyelashes still dotted with moisture. "I'm so fucking relieved. And happy. And a little dizzy."

"Of the two of us, I'd have expected to be the more teary-eyed one at this moment," Eames murmurs as Arthur buries his face in Eames' shoulder. "You didn't even cry when you were shot."

"The bullet barely grazed me," Arthur replies, voice muffled.

"If by grazed, you mean passed through one side of your body and straight out the other," Eames replies, petting Arthur's hair while the damp continues to spread across the fabric of Eames' shirt. "I think the only time I've seen you so much as tear up was when Sonya's show was canceled."

"That's because it's fucking crazy. The world needs her voice." Arthur straightens up at this, sniffling and still a touch red-eyed. "I may start a letter-writing campaign. I'm definitely boycotting the Food Network."

"I shall discontinue my subscription forthwith," Eames promises.

Arthur beams at him. "I'm going to make you so fucking happy, baby, I promise. For the rest of my life."

"You already have," Eames says. "You already do."

fin


End file.
